The wind blows hair

Across  my face 

as I walk the country road

And in its trace

There is no self

But that self which I have known

Since wind first 

sent those strands

To dance across 

The the blank screen of my mind

And set some delimiter

Of space and time

In  vastness  undefined.


The who that sees

This dance 

Is neither young nor old.

This who has no containment,

No set of aching bones

No heavy worries, 

No sorrows in a storm

No glances set askance

To see some form 

That blocks the light–as solid

As the stones


It seems to be the light itself

That witnesses this flight.

This luminescence shining  

From the flowers in the field

Has nothing it must yield

To learned impossibilities

Or sticky sensibilities


The who this is 

That fills with soft delight

Is all there is.

I’ve known it since a child.

The other who with edges tight

Has vanished

And will only come to take a seat

When once again demanded

by love and life’s

most irresistible commandments

Before fading 

into night.


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